The Match
by Starlight10
Summary: Answer to the Quickies: Qtr 1, 2003. Denethor's first encounter with our favorite istari -or rather, Gandalf's first encounter with our favorite Steward? A couple of vignettes filled with puzzling words, concealed thoughts, and much mind-reading...
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: The characters and locations portrayed on this story belong to Tolkien. The tale itself was written as an answer to the Quickies 2003 Qt.1 Challenge posted at HASA. First Encounter Denethor/Gandalf. Any feedback is very much appreciated. Thanks for reading and hope you enjoy.  
SHREWDNESS  
  
Denethor stood on the edge of the turret, his gaze fixed on the ground below in keen concentration. He felt a sudden sense of eagerness as he beheld the two oponents sparring, steel against steel as they joined in an intricate dance for the mastery of the match. The clashing of their swords reached his ears, and before the pitching sounds could vanish entirely, new ones replaced them; sometimes it was the shouting of the soldiers, sometimes it was the ringing of the blade's metal over the shields, or sometimes it may have been his own heart in race with the movements of the combatants. His eyes narrowed as he carefully studied those moves, most of which he had already tested in the battlefield. He straightened the collar of his shirt, and ran a hand over the wrinkled sleeves of his uniform. A new sound came into hearing distance, and he tilted his head in an attempt to recognize it.   
  
Footsteps. They created a rather loud vibration on the floor, alerting him that more than one person approached. He listened attentively, without removing his eyes from the sparring soldiers. Footsteps. One was firm and steady; he could almost time the moment when the foot would enter into contact with the ground; it was very rhythmic and well-paced. His father. He would recognize that step anywhere, so similar it was to his own. But the other footfall puzzled him. Heavy it was, and at moments it seemed as though the walker had the need to drag his legs around. An old man? Nay, the fall was still brisk, much too lively to be that of an old man. It aroused his curiosity. Denethor distinguished another sound, a sort of ticking, which he identified as a rod rasping the railings and occasionally, the stone-paved floor. A staff?  
  
"There you are, Denethor."  
  
"Good day, father," he said before his eyes had fallen completely over his father's person. He noticed how the stranger raised a brow and, as he bowed, Denethor allowed his gaze to linger on this man for a mere second, sufficient time to ensure a good appraisal, and not too long as to be considered intrusive. He was called to attention by the odd garments he wore: they were ragged and wayworn, and all grey, a pointy blue hat topping it all. His eyes were drawn to the stranger's hands almost instantly where, sure enough, he found a staff.  
  
"May I introduce Mithrandir?" Ecthelion glanced toward the stranger. "This is my son, Denethor. It has been a little over five years since he joined the corps, as you may have observed, and will soon step into his duties as Captain of the Guard." Then, speaking to Denethor, "Mithrandir, as you will no doubt notice, is a very perceptive man," and he added in a whisper, "An interesting match for you."  
  
"Good to make your acquaintance, Sir." Denethor noticed the way the stranger's eyes widened behind the bushy brows at his use of the word 'good' as though he was marking it. "I trust you are having a fine stay at the city?"   
  
"Indeed," Mithrandir answered, "as fine as could be expected, thank you. Gondorian hospitality is never lacking."  
  
It was Denethor's turn to raise a brow, his curiosity inmediately piqued, for it seemed to him as though this man had chosen, on purpose, the precise words that would convey much and still leave him without the full picture. This is a man of intelligence, he thought, and impressed upon his mind the need to watch him with more care, if not interest. It was clear that he had visited the city more than once. How could he not recall having ever seen him? Surely here was a man whose presence would not go unnoticed.  
  
"I am glad you still find that statement true, and are well satisfied with our attentions," Ecthelion said. "It has been many a year since the Grey Pilgrim last visited Minas Tirith. I must confess it amazes me that you were even able to find your way around!"  
  
"An old man does not forget old ways, my lord Steward," he replied in good humour, matching Ecthelion's tone.   
  
"Very true," the Steward said, "In your case, at any rate. Yet, I hardly think you are an ordinary man, or old; therefore, you might find that phrase to be somewhat ill-applied to you."  
  
"Say rather, my lord, that what is once learned well, takes long years to be unlearned."  
  
"As you wish, Mithrandir," Ecthelion laughed. "I will not enter into a contest of words with you. I do not have the time, nor the disposition. However," and he looked at Denethor, "you will find in my son a most excellent companion, and one very much suited to your tastes. Denethor has a sharp mind and a clever tongue, much like yours, I should say."  
  
Denethor smiled to his father, folding his arms behind his back. He stood in an upright manner, a soldier's manner, his broad chest forward and his chin lifted, the shoulders in a perfectly perpendicular line with his back. A very fitting heir for the Steward. "I see our guest has a like for the old proverbs," he said.   
  
"And you will see he has a like for many other things, Denethor." Ecthelion leaned against the balustrade. "Forgive our intrusion. I see you were surveiling the soldiers. You have done a good job with the sparring competitions; the men's performance has improved, both physically and mentally."   
  
Denethor nodded. "A battle is won in your mind before it is won with your sword. Physical performance is important, but it will do nothing with a poor strategy. Their minds needed proper training, and these matches give them a good supply of it." He sensed Mithrandir's intent stare fixed on him, but he chose to avoid the glance.  
  
"I must depart now; there are a few things I must see to before the council. I have invited Mithrandir to join us." Denethor jerked at the words, and then cursed himself for indulging in such a gesture that revealed lack of control on his part. "He has wisdom that we could use. Would you keep him company until we are ready to begin? I will see you in fifteen minute's time." With a slight nod, Ecthelion departed, the regular pacing of his steps vanishing to the cries of the excited soldiers in the courtyard, and Denethor was left alone to form his own opinion of the 'wise man.'   
  
"I see you are acquainted with my father," he observed as they started to walk along the rampart, careful that he was the first to speak, and attempting to maintain a neutral tone to his voice.  
  
"I have known Ecthelion since very young." Denethor disliked to have his father referred to without his proper title, yet let it pass. "I also knew his father, and his father's father."   
  
Surely this man was not so old as to have seen Turin's day? A madman, perhaps? No, he appeared to be much too... measured for a madman. Did his father trust him so, as to disclose before him such serious matters as those discussed with his counsellors behind closed doors? "Then I see reason in the Steward's inviting you to join us in today's council. Your wisdom, as he said, must come from long knowledge," he probed.   
  
Mithrandir regarded him for a while; yet, with all his shrewdness, Denethor was unable to see in that stare or demeanor a sign to betray the man's inner thoughts, and it pricked him. At last, the pilgrim spoke, "Wisdom comes as much from experience as it does from observation. I use both, and then determine the truth for myself. There is much one can see when one pays attention to the right things at the right moment."  
  
Denethor forced himself to smile. Was that remark directed to himself, particularly? " 'Tis unfortunate that most people's attention is, sometimes, bestowed upon matters of lesser importance. One can, most easily, miss a good chance of grasping truths that words won't say." Had that been too forward of him? No, he had to let this foreigner know that he had the possession of his own mind, and he was no child to be swayed. The stranger nodded, and smiled in turn; but, surprisingly, he let the conversation drop. Denethor straightened the collar of his shirt and lingered so that Mithrandir would pass him first as they descended down the stair; this gave him a chance to further observe the man. His manner was commanding, and he could see traces of a strong personality in the line of his shoulders, the curve of his nose, the keen eyes that he chose to conceal under the brows and the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat. He gripped his staff firmly, and yet did not seem to stagger as he walked; it was as if he had no need for it at all, and used it only due to ornamental purposes, rather than out of necessity.   
  
"Are you interested in the instruction of soldiers? I noticed the way you observed the practice session only a while ago." They were now in the courtyard, where the scent of sweat mingled with the fresh smell of wet grass.   
  
"Your soldiers seem to have a very good technique," Mithrandir said. "Their blows are guarded and controlled; they are very... patient, which is a necessary virtue in any good soldier. Quite impressive." He eyed Denethor, and the young man could not but get the oppressive feeling that he was being examined. Had he read in those remarks more than there was for him to read? He ran a hand through his hair, brushing a lock aside, and was ready to lead his father's guest away, when the man addressed him once more. "I saw your concentration as you watched the battle practice. Are you always that incisive in everything you do?"  
  
Denethor glanced back, feeling the muscles in his jaw relax into a half-smile against his will. He had been pleased by the words... and it was not right. This man had seen too much in him, or perhaps he had shown too much; but, he had lost the mastery of the conversation and it was now his turn to be questioned instead of being the questioner; of guarding his defenses, instead of attacking. "Always," he said in a determined voice, that edged into a rebuff. "As you have wisely remarked, there is much to be seen when paying attention to the right things. The core of the matter lies, then, in recognizing the right things from the excessive amount of babbling."   
  
Mithrandir laughed, a reaction most unexpected that put Denethor aback. The Steward's son twisted his mouth in what he intended to be a grin, used to conceal the surprise this outburst had caused. He had deliberately aimed his questions so he could get this Mithrandir to speak, to reveal himself, yet the man had managed to duck every single blow as skilfully as a clever old fox. It was almost time for the council to start, and all Denethor had been able to get from him were a few superficial facts: the tone of his voice; the main expressions of his face; the firm grasp of his hand on his staff, the stair's railings; the pitch of his laughter. This information would have to do, he decided, and perhaps he would be at leisure to analyze it later; but, at the moment, he was too vexed. They had been swept into a bout, thrust and parry, advance and retreat, speak and conceal, and he did not intend to come out in defeat before this man. His eyes narrowed, and he glanced up at the tower of guard, where a soldier clad in black mail was standing with his horn in hand, expectant. "The council will commence shortly. All the great lords and captains of the kingdom will attend; and us," Denethor said curtly. "My father may have mentioned the topic of discussion?" He shot wider; this question allowed only a straight answer.  
  
"You wish to know whether I am aware of the shadow that is rising above Gondor, do you not?" Without waiting for a reply, Mithrandir answered his own question. The stern tone of his voice carried deep to Denethor's ears, and disturbed him. "Yes, I am well aware of it. That is why I have come."   
  
So he knows, Denethor thought grimly. He must have betrayed some sign of distress, for the next sound he heard was that of Mithrandir's low laughter, and he could not help but glare.   
  
"Even as I have already learned of this, some others have and will. There are many ways to gather news, son of Ecthelion," Mithrandir said, "and at this moment there are many news to be gathered.Your father will not be able to conceal the threat for long."   
  
Denethor scowled. How dared this man advise the Steward or question his policies? It took all his self-restraint to nod politely but he crossed his arms behind his back to hide his paled knuckles. Whence does this man obtain his knowledge? There is the wisdom my father speaks of, all of which will be unavailing if it is not drawn out of him properly. In a desperate attempt to regain his control, Denethor tried his last move, "And, are you here to... help?"   
  
Mithrandir's answer was lost in the air under the cheering voices of the soldiers. Swords rang for the last time, shields were tossed away, and exulting cries issued from the combatants. The match was over. The horn from the tower echoed with a shrill note and for a moment the world stood still. Denethor's stare fixed on the pilgrim, intensely, and the pilgrim answered back with a sharp, focused gaze as though no other person was there, but them.   
  
Suddenly, Denethor was jarred from this abstracted state by the voice of a guard calling, "The council is about to begin, my lord. Your father awaits." Reluctantly, he was forced to acquiesce and watch the stranger follow his father's man, staff in hand and hat concealing that smouldering glance of his. He pursed his lips and, before turning, gave a final look at the soldiers in the courtyard. One of them, retrieving his armour, lifted his sword victoriously in the air; the other thrust it discreetly on its sheath, gripping it tightly. Defeat, Denethor thought, biting his lips. He ran a hand through his hair, straightened the collar of his shirt once again, and walked away, his own steady footfalls reverberating in the wide hallways until they were shut out as he entered the council chamber, disappearing behind a door in the White Tower. 


	2. Wisdom

WISDOM  
  
The sun shone bright and clear on the pale blue sky, and from time to time Gandalf was able to catch a glimpse of a straying beam as it fell over the white marbles and stones in the houses of the citadel. Minas Tirith was the same as he remembered it from those days long ago, solemn and old, very old, yet with a certain beauty that did not fail to awaken awe in the hearts of those who ever saw her halls. The White Tower gleamed in glory, its banners swirling with the playful breeze as it teased fabrics, rooftops, leaves... It was a fine morning in a fine day, and the world seemed glad; yet, he wondered for how long. He could even hear the chirping of a few birds, though faintly; the shouting of the soldiers in the courtyard threatened to drown almost every other noise, except the shrill ringing of metal against metal and that of his staff tapping the floor as he made his way over the rampart.   
  
The Steward of the city walked now with him, and even though he saw signs of worry in the furrowed brow and contracted jaw whenever they chanced to gaze eastwards, Ecthelion was in a good mood, and so he sought the opportunity to enquire further about the city and the recent developments. All the information the Steward supplied had served to confirm his suspicions about the nature of the raids and attacks in the borders of Gondor, and he was glad that, at least, he had arrived before war was openly declared. As Ecthelion spoke, his gaze turned to the soldiers. Soon enough there would be time for them to show their worth. Would it that it could be prevented! He tightened his fists and allowed his eyes to linger there for a while, studying their moves as they attacked and retreated. Their shields and armor glittered in the sun, and so did their blades, sending blinding flickers of silver.   
  
"To which of the companies do these soldiers belong?" he asked, gesturing to the courtyard with his staff, but looking forward to where he saw the figure of a tall man leaning against the railings. The straight line of his back and shoulders revealed a proud and regal sort of character, and the degree of attention he bestowed upon the practice bout told him that this man was not only very keen, but had a great interest in the performance of these soldiers. The man seemed young and noble; an aspiring General, perhaps; or, mayhap he was one of the new-made Captains.  
  
"Several of them, actually, as you may see from their uniforms, Mithrandir," Ecthelion said. "Those in black mail belong to the citadel guard; those clad in green have come from Ithilien, brought here to teach the young ones about life and stealth in the forests. Those in brown," Gandalf turned to him, brow raised and curiosity piqued; the man he had been gazing at wore a brown uniform, "belong to the hosts of Gondor, our main military force, as you know. You may wish to ask Denethor, my son, about these matters, for he- Ah!" The steward turned from him and smiled broadly as he greeted the young man. "There you are, Denethor."   
  
"Good day, father," the man said before he had fully looked at them, and this did not escape Gandalf, who raised his brow in surprise. The youth had noticed their approach while they were still away, without even turning his eyes from the courtyard. What an unexpected coincidence that this intriguing young man was Ecthelion's heir.   
  
"May I introduce Mithrandir?" the Steward said. "This is my son, Denethor. It has been a little over five years since he joined the corps, as you may have observed, and will soon step into his duties as Captain of the Guard."   
  
Quite young, Gandalf thought; according to gondorian custom, not over twenty and two years, I should say. And a difficult time for him to become Captain-General, too. I wonder whether he fully realizes the scope of this... He noticed how Denethor observed him with an interest cautiosly concealed by his quick eye and steady demeanor; yet, to him, he revealed a curiosity that matched his own. He had been desirous to meet the heir to the Steward; if his foresight proved true, this man would have to face the greatest threat this age of the world had produced. Would he be equal to the challenge? His mind was so deeply caught by such reflections that he lost the remainder of Ecthelion's words, and only was he called back to attention when he heard Denethor say 'Good to make your acquaintance.' Gandalf could not help but widen his eyes. Out of all the words he could have used, he had chosen the word 'good' -not pleased, nor delighted, or any other of the courteous variations used for such occasions. He marked this.  
  
"I trust you are having a fine stay at the city?" Denethor asked him, his tone perfectly agreeable.  
  
"Indeed," he answered, "as fine as could be expected, thank you. Gondorian hospitality is never lacking." Now it was Gandalf's turn to appear agreeable, and he tried, observing with amusement how Denethor raised a brow in what he interpreted as a sign of curiosity. The young heir wanted to find more about him! How amusing.  
  
"I am glad you still find that statement true, and are well satisfied with our attentions," Ecthelion said. "It has been many a year since the Grey Pilgrim last visited Minas Tirith. I must confess it amazes me that you were even able to find your way around!"  
  
"An old man does not forget old ways, my lord Steward," was all he replied, yet he did so in good-humour.  
  
"Very true," the Steward said. "In your case, at any rate. Yet, I hardly think you are an ordinary man, or old; therefore, you might find that phrase to be somewhat ill-applied to you."  
  
He was, of course, flattered, and did not strive to conceal it. "Say rather, my lord, that what is once learned well, takes long years to be unlearned." He noticed how Denethor looked at him, pointedly, but for a brief moment.  
  
"As you wish, Mithrandir," Ecthelion laughed. "I will not enter into a contest of words with you. I do not have the time nor the disposition. However, you will find in my son a most excellent companion, and one very much suited to your tastes. Denethor has a sharp mind and a clever tongue, much like yours, I should say." Denethor smiled openly to his father, seemingly pleased; and in that unguarded moment, Gandalf had an opportunity to observe him with more care. His pale complexion created a strong contrast with the dark of his hair, which made him look slightly older than he in truth was. His proud bones were perfectly set, and the strong jaw enhanced a manly appearance. A full numenorean. Yet, the most remarkable feature on his face were the dark deep eyes that peered back at him with such intensity that sometimes the glance turned hard to bear, almost burning.   
  
Again, he found, to his utter discomfiture, that he had missed a few more bits of conversation. He ought to focus his mind. Denethor was now speaking of military strategy and mental training; an interesting notion, and one that would prove useful against the dark foes that assailed them who were cunning as they were strong. Good, he thought. This heir had a sensible head on his shoulders; he was clever, keen, sly... and, mistrustful. Gandalf saw how he jerked when Ecthelion informed him that 'Mithrandir' had been invited to the council. Was that a bad sign, or a good one? Gandalf himself could not decide, but was astonished at the sudden excitement he felt when, a few minutes later, he saw the Steward depart, leaving him at his leisure to form his own opinion of the 'shrewd heir.'  
  
"I see you are acquainted with my father," Denethor remarked as they resumed the walk along the rampart.  
  
"I have known Ecthelion since very young." Gandalf saw Denethor's mouth twitch. Had he been bothered? Ah! the title, he thought. "I also knew his father, and his father's father."   
  
After some hesitation, Denethor said, "Then I see reason in the Steward's inviting you to join us in today's council. Your wisdom, as he said, must come from long knowlege." There was something to his voice that made him seem somewhat taunting, daring even. Gandalf noticed a foreign tilt to his otherwise uplifted head. He does not believe me, he thought, much less trusts me; he thinks me a dotard, perhaps. What a thought! He is very guarded, this one.   
  
"Wisdom comes as much from experience as it does from observation," Gandalf said. "I use both, and then determine the truth for myself. There is much one can see when one pays attention to the right things at the right moment." There it was; that should teach him to peer beyond one's looks. His remarks caused the desired effect; Denethor gave him a half-smile, wry and subtle. He had understood.  
  
" 'Tis unfortunate that most people's attention is, sometimes, bestowed upon matters of lesser importance. One can, most easily, miss a good chance of grasping truths that words won't say." Gandalf nodded, and forced himself to smile, but the words silenced him. What had he meant by that? The heir had a strong will, and, indeed, a sharp tongue. Gandalf noticed how he straightened the collar of his shirt, again, and lingered so that he would remain behind as they descended down the stair. Denethor was seeking for an opportunity to watch him, and he would indulge him.   
  
"Are you interested in the instruction of soldiers?" Denethor asked, "I noticed the way you observed the practice session only a while ago." He had resorted to the topic of the military now that they were in the courtyard surrounded by soldiers whose swords clashed together in ominous blasts. Gandalf was glad for the turn of the conversation; tension had been building and it had to be relieved if he was to continue his perusal of the young man. What would the best way be to achieve this? Through reflections, proverbs, praise....  
  
"Your soldiers seem to have a very good technique. Their blows are guarded and controlled; they are very..." he groped for the proper word, "very patient, which is a necessary virtue in any good soldier. Quite impressive." Gandalf hoped to flatter him, yet not any kind of praise would do. Gandalf's words had to be sincere, and they were, for he was indeed impressed by what he had seen of Denethor; not pleased, nor disatisfied, but deeply impressed. Yet, he saw that he did not quite succeed in his attempt, which impressed him the more. Denethor's face remained unreadable, and brushing a lock aside, he was already leading him away, when he decided to thrust a risky blow. "I saw your concentration as you watched the battle practice. Are you always that incisive in everything you do?"  
  
Denethor glanced back and smiled, though the smile was somewhat tight at the corners, and Gandalf caught a flicker of something odd in the piercing eyes. "Always," he said in a voice too pointed to be merely confident, and too determined to be merely contented. "As you have wisely remarked, there is much to be seen when paying attention to the right things. The core of the matter lies, then, in recognizing the right things from the excessive amount of babbling." Gandalf could not help but laugh, and even more so after seeing the strange grin in Denethor's countenance. The Steward's son was surprised by his laughter, and he, in turn, was surprised by the artful, subtle, double-edged, charming answer that he had received. Such a way with words the lad had; such audacity woven so carefully within a tapestry of courteous speech. There was surely more to this heir than appearances showed, even though, at present, it was too soon to determine how time and circumstances would make their work on him. The young man intrigued him inmensely; he was a most complex, perplexing riddle for him to solve, even though he had been able to read much in the forward and easy attitude, the studious speech, the mask of polite interest that concealed such deep observations, the curious glance, and even the unguarded gestures that escaped him at times and reminded Gandalf that this man was but a young mortal. He had read much, indeed, but he was only left with the sensation that he had also missed much. This pricked him, it discomposed and disturbed him. No one was ever difficult for him to make out.  
  
"The council will commence shortly," Denethor said. "All the great lords and captains of the kingdom will attend; and us. My father may have mentioned the topic of discussion?"  
  
Gandalf did not fail to notice the implied taunt behind the curt words. A bout, he thought, as the echoes of the soldiers' lively cheering reached him; would he be the victor? He narrowed his gaze over the youth as he felt his own face burn. "You wish to know whether I am aware of the shadow that is rising above Gondor, do you not? Yes, I am well aware of it. That is why I have come." The expression in the young man's countenance was puzzling, an odd mixture of vexation and awe, and no verbal answer. Gandalf seized the opportunity to aim his last dart. "Even as I have already learned of this, some others have and will. There are many ways to gather news, son of Ecthelion, and at this moment there are many news to be gathered. Your father will not be able to conceal the threat for long."   
  
Denethor nodded, yet a scowl quickly stroke his features, underlining the increasing tension on the forehead and jaw, and thus he stood in deep contemplation for an awkward moment, at the end of which he asked, "And are you here to... help?"  
  
Even as he answered, the air resounded with gleeful noises and exulting cries as swords clashed a final time and shields were tossed away. The match was over. Amid the cheering voices of the soldiers, Gandalf heard the familiar note of the horn from the tower, high and long, that held his heart and mind in a spell as his stare fixed on Denethor, sharply and most intently, and Denethor answered back with a piercing gaze of his own. For a moment, the world stood still, and that brief, straining moment ended by the voice of a guard calling. "The council is about to begin, my lord. Your father awaits." Gandalf unwillingly mumbled an acknowledgement that was choked between the strands of his grey beard. He touched the brim of his hat, bowed low before the Steward's heir, and walked away, leaving behind the cries of victory, the blows, the swords, the shields, until only the echo of his heavy footfall remained, and that of his staff against the stone-paved floors in the corridors of Ecthelion's Tower. 


End file.
